C'est Trop Aimer Quand on en Meurt
by The Truth's Lie
Summary: Why exactly does England hate France so much? Dub/Non-Con, Heavily implied Shota, Teen!France-Unconscious!Child!England. Mentions of Child Abuse.


You could ask England why he hated France and in return he could give you a barrage of answers.

His attitude.

His face.

His personality.

His voice.

But everyone knows they're all lies.

Not even Arthur can remember why he hates Francis, the memory is blackened and twisted with age, making his skin crawl when he brings it up. So he doesn't think of it much and contents himself with glaring at him across the meeting room. But you've grown curious, haven't you? I admire your fire, but don't forget how much trouble it has gotten you into in the past.

Hmm?

Stalling? Moi?

Never.

I suppose it wouldn't do any harm. Just keep your mouth shut about it around England.

Why?

Because you can't ask someone who doesn't remember the lie to tell the truth, don't you think England himself has asked the same question you do? If you want the real, true answer, you'll have to ask Wales.

What?

Oh.

He's rather easy to find.

Look for the man who looks like England. He'll be in the bars, chatting up the lovely women who live in alleyways. Or maybe you'll have a better chance if you ask him at home. Such matters are better not discussed in public. He will look at you with larger-than-life eyes, a thin, curled mouth twisting into something that might be a smile and lean his head back in his old leather armchair. When you smell cigarette smoke and vanilla, you've come to the right place.

He can tell you everything about his brothers. About hot-headed Scotland whose kisses taste like ashtrays. About Ireland, who is in a coma from a disease they can't find and lives in a permanent state of sleep in the third bedroom to the right of her summer home in Belfast. But it is England who he will cry over. He will tell you about a small child, hated from day one. He will make you close your eyes and it will help you see. It is the curve of his chubby legs when he runs that haunts him, he will admit. It is the wildness of his eyes, the rise of his chest, the small, pink mouth opening to say something he can't hear that makes this kind man punch walls.

It is ignoring the screams until they stop, believing it to be Scotland messing around again that fuels his fire. But it is the silence, the awful, awful silence that had drawn him to his brother that makes him cry. This is the part of the story that you need to piece together, mon cheri. Can you imagine it well enough from what has been said? Can you imagine what it must have been like to find your little brother in the clearing?

I was not there when he came across him, but the image makes my mouth water. How sweet he must have looked, spread across the dirt. How his legs had looked, I wonder even today. They had been curling around each other when I left but I like to imagine they were still open, waiting for me to return.

Oh close your mouth, you fool. You wanted to know, so sit down. Its not polite to interrupt your elders. Where was I? Oh yes…

He would not remember what happened; a blow to the back of the head had made sure of that. I love him, true, but his voice is what makes me weak. If he had just shut up, none of this would have happened. It is all his fault. He was an angel who dared to dance in front of a mortal man.

_Look at me,_ he had demanded. _Do you see my perfection_?

I saw it, and I wanted it. Oh how I wanted it. Just one more second to stare at his face, a moment to take in those legs, that was all I asked. He taunted me with visions of white, flashing thighs and the smooth column of his throat as laughed at me with his damnable fairy friends. He begged and demanded that I look, that I give him all my attention, so I did. I looked, I saw, and I yearned to touch.

England had never been loved before, He could deal with hatred, could spit fire from those perfect, pink lips, but he was, and always would be, a creature of war. Those legs were meant to run from danger, not wrap around a waist. His hands, smooth and soft, could throw a knife or string a bow faster than they could caress or explore. England was a battle-child, raised to hate and destroy, to trudge through mud and grit to get what he wanted.

I was not one of those things.

The memory of what I had done next haunts me to this day. How sweet he had tasted, sugar and fire. In his sleep, he had moaned, cried out and finally screamed. How I hoped the dreams were nice until that moment. How I have been haunted with those screams. Even now, with my temptation so far away, he haunts me_._

_Look at me, look, look at me and tell me that I'm beautiful._

**_(You're beautiful)_ **

_Do you like what you see? _

_**(Yes, yes, oh Lord, yes**) _

What does he want from me? I have given him everything. He has my heart, my soul, all of it for his taking. All he has to do is ask. I only wanted something from him in return. In exchange for my everything, I wanted his body.

Is that so awful of me? Can you condemn me? Have I not been scorned enough by the Angels themselves? Have I not looked into the eyes of God and asked for forgiveness? Am I such a damnable man that not even my heart wishes to return to me? I can feel the gap in my chest widen by the day. My soul calls for its half, and I don't believe I can last much longer without it.

Time is ticking by, and I am eagerly awaiting my moment. Soon, I will descend into Hell and taste the fires once more. Will they have aged, like a fine wine? Or will they taste as they always have, like skin and hair? Who am I to do this, you must be asking? To corrupt such perfection? How can I eagerly await the chance to rip an Angel's wings and discuss it here before you so calmly, so sanely? The answer is quite simple.

I am the country of love, whether the recipient is willing or not.

I am a sick, twisted bastard who took advantage of a child.

I am Francis Bonnefoy, and I am not sorry for what I have done.

_**C'est cela l'amour, tout donner, tout sacrifier sans espoir de retour.**_


End file.
